


Catechisms and Cannonballs

by plsnskanks (orphan_account)



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Angel Tom, Demon Tord, M/M, Rape, Sacrilege, Violence, fallen tord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 13:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11624091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/plsnskanks
Summary: Tord took the fallTom didn't





	Catechisms and Cannonballs

**Author's Note:**

> Right so fair warning, this fic is going to get dark(er), the tags are going to change and I am going to warn pre chapter what tags changed. Its probably going to update very sporadically so bear with me. Already been sitting on my computer for close to 50 days.

Now, tell me if you have heard this one before. A demon and an angel walk into a bar. The demon, in a long dark coat, sidles up to the angel, nursing a glass of vodka and the angel turns to the demon and says:

“Fuck off, Tord.”

“So cold Thomas, it’s been so long, is that how you greet an old friend?” Tord says, leaning on the counter. His hair tips just a little to the side and maybe Tom would have called it cute if he could see the man in front of him as anything other than a snake.

Tom looks at Tord for a quiet moment, before turning back to his drink and downing it. Tord wants to touch him. He wants to put his finger on Tom’s Adam’s apple as it bobs. 

He can’t do that anymore. He can’t kiss Tom, hold him close, feel his warm skin on his calloused hands. He can sit, he can look, and he can haunt Tom like the dead man walking he is. Or rather demon, fallen angel.

Same difference.

Tom finishes his drink, slamming it down onto the table. The bar around them is bustling with smoky figures who fade in and out of the shadows. It’s Tom’s regular haunt and Tord keeps finding himself winding up here again, night after night, year after year, coming for Tom the same way Tom comes for his glass of vodka.

He doesn’t really know wholly why he needs or wants him so bad. He just knows that he does. Part of it, part of it is anger, old resentment from open wounds he picked at and let fester so they would scar. So he would always remember the last Judas touch Tom gave him as he walked out of heaven.

That last promise that he would follow, that he would be there, right behind him.

Tord fell long.

He fell hard.

He feel alone.

Into the opening maw of hellfire that crusty old pedophiles screech about to the easily impressionable over grown children that sit on the rotting pews waiting to drink the rotting juice and eat the flat empty disc that promises nothing but a false dream. 

It’s so easy for Tom to get up out of his stool and without even looking back he starts to walk off, quickly approaching the shadows that crawl towards him slowly, whispering their familiar greetings as they see him approach. Tord reaches out to catch Tom’s hand and yanks it back as he feels his skin start to burn.

Could not have been more than a split second their touch lasted and the skin of Tord’s palm is a smoldering bloody mess.

“You should go back to the ninth Tord, put some ice on that,” Tom says without turning back.

“Ninth circle huh? Fitting you pick the one you belong in. If the world had any sense of justice, you would be coming back with me,” Tord sneers but inside he is waiting, hoping, wanting that face to turn his way.

Tord hates him. He won’t even look, won’t even spare a glance back to see the misery he’s wrought. He’ll just walk away and pretend like nothing happened. Like there is nothing but dust motes and idle thoughts left in his wake, when in reality there are ashes and blood.

“Ahh just like you Doubting Thomas, walking away from everything as soon as you are looking at a gambit,” Tord says. His tone is light, jovial. It’s his last dig as he prepares to let Tom fade off into the dark.

Then the back in front of him hunches and Tom is whirling around, heated words kept only at bay by the hour and the intent.

“Don’t call me that, I haven’t had enough drinks to be dealing with you,” Tom snaps as he turns to face Tord fully. Finally. His eyes slide up Tom’s body, noting the way his hips slanted at a harsh angle, every muscle in Tom’s body pulled tight, as if waiting for someone to snap them one by one so he can collapse limbless into the gutter with the rising filth where he belongs.

Where he is within reach of people like Tord.

“At least all my gambles turn out.”

“Yes, it is only those of us who truly have faith that can truly be burned as well.”

Tord just wants a little longer, just a moment or two more of Tom being here, looking at him, noticing his presence. Anything, but ghosting him by and carrying on and acting like he hasn’t damned Tord to an eternity alone amongst the smoking ashes of this slowly dying earth when life recedes like the evening tide and even the moon and her children will flicker out of the night sky.

Who then will sing for him? Will call his name or mourn his loss? From whence will his rebirth in memory come once the four horsemen have tread their ground?

So he pulls out the only thing he can even think will give him a sliver of a chance. The silver catches the dim light and sparks it, catches Tom gaze. Ah yes, he’s got him now.

“How about a drink then, you haven’t had enough, here, I offer,” Tord says, extending the flask to Tom. Tom’s eyes narrow as he looks from the flask to Tord and back again.

“How do I know this isn’t full of some devil’s brew?”

Tord twists off the top of the flask and takes a swig, feeling the fire of whiskey on his tongue and down his throat. He keeps it with him for when he gets a little homesick. He offers it to Tom. At Tom’s further hesitation Tord speaks.

“It has nothing in it but whiskey Tom, remember, we demons can’t lie,” the rest goes unspoken, but Tom sneers a little as he takes the flask into his hand and Tord watches those lithe slim hands that scorched his own flesh just moments ago, tip back the flask as Tom takes his first drink.

And last apparently.

The flask is on the floor now, bleeding out its whiskey ruin as Tom joins it a moment later. The shadows are closing in, the faces coming forth into the dim light as they come to gape at the writhing man on the dirty wooden floor. Gaunt faces with shadows pooling in their eye sockets look down at the man whose screams sound like church hymns. 

Tom’s hand reaches out, clawed and desperate. Empty and alone. His face has an agony Tord himself has felt but never been able to fit into words.

It has him willfully coming to his knees for the first time since the fall and again for the second time tonight, he is touching Tom’s bare skin, sliding his uninjured hand into Tom’s and feeling the warm, soft skin, the blunt nails driving into his hand with such force that they will probably draw blood and-.

Tom’s noises of agony fade to white static as Tord stares at the deathly pale hand in his grip. He looks at the flask. Then at Tom who is laying on the floor, drool leaking out his mouth, smelling distinctly of piss.

He’s in reach now. Tord stop praying so very, very long ago, but it seems his oldest and most fervent request, it’s gotten though.

He pulls him up off the ground, lifts him up from the puddle of alcohol, spit, and piss that he was currently soaking in, absorbing. He has him against his shoulder, that soft, light brown hair that would always stick up no matter how many times he would playfully try to tamp it down.

He can hear the soft hic- hic- hiccup coming from Tom as they walk into the shadows together, the sea of faces parting, distant murmurs and questions about Tom’s state going on ignored as Tord thinks only of how much he needs to take advantage of this delusion before he wakes up cold and alone again.

He buckles Tom into his front seat and it’s a lucky, lucky thing they even make it home, because all Tord is doing the entire time is looking at him, watching his chest rise and fall, looking at the tear tracks on his cheeks, the pout to his slack lips as he listens to the soft push and pull of air from Tom’s lungs.

He makes it through the gate and up the drive without incident as well. Moving around the side of the car he opens the door and pulls Tom out, hefting him up into his arms and for a moment, cradled against his chest, slack and lifeless, they are their own twisted pieta, two broken beings set together against the towering rise of Tord’s old stone mansion.

He turns and takes Tom inside, up the stairs and into his bedroom where he lays next to him, tracing the outline of his profile with a fingertip as he sleeps. Just these idle little touches, with both hands now that his other palm has fully healed. Eventually he works up the courage to place a soft kiss on Tom’s lips, and like that his sleeping beauty is awakened.

“Beauty”.

Tom is screaming again, more coherently this time, but not by much. It isn’t driven by pain this time, that much is clear. It’s driven by rage.

“You filthy fucking liar,” are the first words out of Tom’s mouth as he slams both hands into Tord’s cheeks. He’s done this before, the last time was maybe a century ago. The last time he willingly touched Tord. He always did it when he got pissed off enough and wanted to hurt Tord, to burn him for getting too close. But now the flame has flickered out and the moth may do as it pleases.

“I’m the liar?” Tord laughs. It’s hollow, there’s this dead ring to it. Tom yanks back his hands like he’s the one scalded and Tord chuckles a bit to himself as he sees an emotion he hasn’t seen since the early days. Back when Tom wasn’t used to Tord not being able to touch him, when he hadn’t grown cocky. 

“No,” he says slowly, edges of his mouth turning up as he sings the syllable out into the open air and begins his slow crawl to Tom who continues to back up until he is flattened against the headboard, Tord’s face inches from his own.

“Take off your hoodie,” Tord says. 

Tom seems to swallow his fear. He looks at Tord and pulls up his right hand to flip him his own little sign of peace.

Tord seizes his hand and squeezes. Squeezes until the bones in Tom’s hands shift and pop. Tom lets out a gasp and his hand flies up to stifle the whimper that follows. All his senses were so muted before. Pain was a thing. Agony? Pure agony like what Tord was doing to his hand? New. And he knew it got worse.

“Take. Off. Your. Hoodie,” Tord punctuated softly, quietly, letting go of Tom’s hand and reaching a hand up to stroke the side of his face. Tom slapped his hand away and then petulantly shrugged off his hoodie, balling it up against his chest and curling around it defensively. 

“Give it here,” Tord said, hand patiently outstretched. Tom hesitated, but as Tord raised his hand again, with no particular action in mind, Tom flinched and gave him the hoodie, leaning back to his chest with his hands.

“Tom, I don’t want to hurt you right now, but if you don’t listen, I have no other recourse,” Tord said putting a hand on Tom’s, the one he had been squeezing earlier.   
“I am finding this whole, demons can’t lie thing to be a rancid crock of shit,” Tom spat, jerking his hand away from Tord.

“You cannot corrupt the truth, you can subvert it. So a simple lie like, “I will go with you” when in reality you know you won’t, is unacceptable. However a line like “I don’t want to hurt you” when you genuinely mean it , but maybe don’t have the patience to actually promise that you won’t. That’s allowed,” Tord says as he eyes Tom’s hand. 

“The flask, you knew-,” Tom began as he cradled his hand to himself.

“I did not,” Tord said, looking at Tom solemnly. Tom’s eyes widened and he looked at his hand, just staring listlessly until Tord put a hand to his face, gently cupping his cheek. “But I am not sorry. I’ve missed this, you don’t even know.”

Tom slaps his hand away without thinking and that indignant haughty look, that face, always looking down on him with those dark eyes that give him nothing. No apology, no remorse, no reaction. Just flat emptiness.

That’s what tears it. The seams of Tom’s pants are popping and ripping as a clawed hand is pulling them off and Tom is looking up at him startled, so startled. Old memories rise of him, cowering in a corner with a crucifix as he whispers Hail Mary’s at Tord’s approach.

“Are you going to pray again?” Tord says as he pauses, taking a moment to look at the naked man underneath him. Tom has one arm across his chest and the other across his privates. They are removed as Tord uses Tom’s discarded hoodie to tie his hands against the headboard.

“Has anyone touched you here?” Tord asks as he runs a finger gently along Tom’s balls. Those milky legs are slamming shut, but Tord has them pried open again, claws digging into the tender flesh as he gives Tom a bite on the high inside of his thigh. He watches the wound start to weep a little, licking up the blood. 

“Answer the question Tom,” Tord said, rubbing his hand against the bite he just made. Tom closed his eyes and didn’t respond for a moment.

“Fuck off.”

Tord gives him a matching bite on the other thigh appreciating the sharp little yelp Tom can’t quite stifle. He’s pulling lube out of his side drawer to coat his finger. He runs it along on of Tom’s nipples as his other hand rubs at Tom’s thigh, smearing blood all over it.

He trails the finger down to Tom’s ass and presses in. Or tries to. Tom is clenching down so hard it’s a bitch to get anywhere. He looks up at Tom expecting to see him glaring at him, or getting ready to spit some nasty expletive at his eye contact. What he gets is Tom slumped into the pillows, legs shaking and eye shut. 

Tord watches them fly open as he envelops Tom’s cock. He bobs his head and as he is laving Tom’s head with his tongue he finally gets his finger in up to first knuckle. He uses his hand to hold down Tom’s hips as he takes him deeper and it isn’t long before he is pushing in a second finger along with the first. Tom’s foot comes up to dig into his side as nervous whimpers fill the room but Tord is able to get both all the way in. 

He starts to hum to himself as he begins to scissor Tom, some shitty tune, maybe it’s some offbeat attempt at “Amazing Grace”, it’s not like he’s been to church this millennia.

He pulls off and a trail of thin saliva follows him. He smiles at the erect cock in front of him and grips it, watching as Tom’s face scrunches up in pleasure.

“Mmm, what a good little angel you are, getting all needy as soon as someone gets your dick a little wet,” Tord says as he pushes in a third finger and starts to probe around. 

Tom doesn’t respond, he just tries to press himself farther down into the sheets and appears to be trying to close his eyes even tighter. Tord absolutely will not let him run from this. No mercy for cowards in the bedroom or out of it.

A hard painful jab has Tom eye’s opening despite his best efforts and a long moan pulled out of him to hang in the air with his building embarrassment. He is looking at Tord with this distraught, befuddled look.

The lost sheep is looking for his shepherd.

“Tom, tell me, who has touched you here?” Tord purred as he gave Tom a slow stroke followed by a much more muted thrust of his fingers. He listened to the heavy breaths that disturbed the otherwise thick silence.

“No one,” Tom finally admits.

“That’s right, no one but me,” Tord said, crawling up over Tom to pull him into a kiss. Tom feels the tongue enter his mouth. He’s kissed before. He’s kissed like this. Deep intimate. But suddenly it feels too deep and too intimate as Tord’s tongue seems to be endless, pushing past his own, to the back of his mouth. Making him gag as it slithers down his throat. Tom’s choking. He can’t breathe.

His crotch feels hot and funny and Tom hates himself as he realizes he’s shifting his hips to try and grind against Tord. Oh God. He’s getting off on this. Tord’s hand comes down to rub at his crotch, cupping his balls and squeezing and Tom is gagging even worse after that and he’s had it he’s not letting Tord do this, get under his skin.

His tastes blood. Wait no, not blood. Demon’s don’t bleed and this is so much more rancid than the copper tone of blood. 

Ichor, his mouth is filling up with black sticky ichor as Tord slams him back into the pillow by his throat, pulling out his monstrous snake of a tongue with a feral hiss.  
“You want to make everything harder, huh? We both know how this goes Tom. You play the good little angel, who doesn’t want this, while you’re rubbing your dirty little body all over me like a dog.” Tord snaps his fingers and Tom doesn’t know what that means until he has a hand forcing his head up while he hears wet noises. He looks up to see a perfect view of his own ass with someone’s head currently touching his entrance.

Then that head is disappearing as the small pucker stretches wider and wider than Tom believes it could. It burns and it hurts and Tom isn’t used to this and what in God’s name is that feeling. Tord’s cock doesn’t feel smooth, it feels odd and bumpy and suddenly something extra thick is pressing at a part of him that makes all that pain fall into the background until Tord pulls back out again.

“What the fuck is wrong with your dick?” Tom moans as he feels each of the bumps pull out again.

“Mmm, you like that? It’s just for you,” Tord says as he pushes in again. Tom can see it more clearly now that he is focused on the image above, he watches as each ridge disappears inside of him and then his mind goes to static as that extra large bump pushes in right there and oh that feels good. So good. Tom knows it’s a sin to feel this good.

“Father forgive me,” he whispers as he feels himself shift down so that spot is getting all the right attention. Tom cries out sharply as he feels the cock pull out roughly and push back in again, and suddenly his mind processes that the image above him isn’t his ass anymore, it’s- 

Is that really him?

He hadn’t even notice the tears and snot leaking down his face, but there they are, clear as day. And that’s his pink yawning mouth that opens as Tord pushes in that damned spot again and he’s begging for something, he has no clue what.

“If you are going to ask anything of anyone, it should be of me,” Tord snarls and Tom is going crazy, he feels like he should be reaching his end, should have this all be over at some point but it isn’t coming.

“You need my permission,” Tord says as that disgusting tongue licks the shell of his ear. A hand is pulling his hair sharply and it’s like he’s been tazed as a shockwave of tingling travels down his body like an electric current.

“Do you want to cum?” Tord says softly, gently, as if he is being mercifully. Oh please.

“Yes,” that voice comes out of him far more desperate and pitiful than he thought it would, but there’s no salvaging his dignity in this situation.

“Apologize.”

He would give anything to Tord. Tell him anything he wants to hear at that moment. Anything, except that.

“Not in your fucking eternal lifetime,” he spits. The face inches from his own glares down at him, contorting into something almost otherworldly as Tom feels something burning him on his chest. He looks down to see Tord’s hands, smoking against his skin. He can’t help the pained screams that come out of him. The way he is thrashing, trying to free himself. The ample tears that flow more freely as those hands move south and Tom is terrified so terrified.

His eyes are locked with Tord’s and he couldn’t even say what Tord wanted him to if he himself wanted to. Tord’s hands pull off his body and Tom is looking at a bloody burned chest one moment and a spotless unmarred one the next.

“You’re far too pretty to keep like that for long,” Tord said as he ran his hands over the areas that had just been burning. Smooth lips are kissing the tears from his cheeks and Tom hears some high pitched whimper, some chant on repeat. Tord Tord Tord Tord Tord Tord.

It’s his own voice. 

Tord runs a hand through his hair, “Shh, it’s alright now, I’m not angry, we’ll get there soon enough. I pushed you a little too far, it’s okay, I understand.”

If he thought he was getting any sort of apology anytime, he clearly did not understand. Tom is looking at him, fury written pure across his face. 

It’s cute, Tom looking at him indignantly, pinched little face, still with that air of arrogance even when moments ago he was sniveling at his fingertips. Tord’s mouth quirks into the nastiest little grin as he utters that one syllable.

“Cum.”

Instantly Tom’s body reacts, and that nasty little look turns to one of pleasure and satiation as Tom looks down in confusion to see he has cum across his stomach like a good boy. Tord wipes it off and holds the white shit up to his mouth, forcing his fingers inside when Tom refuses to open. Tom is about to bite down when Tord locks him in a paralyzing gaze. His eyes catch the moonlight seeping into the room through the window in this eerie, otherworldly way.

“Bite me again and we find out how many teeth you have to lose until you pass out.”

Tom’s teeth graze Tord’s fingers just slightly and he flinches as Tord’s other hand raises, coming up to rub his cheek with his thumb.

“Mmm, see, you behave very well when you want to, I like to reward you, be good for me more often okay?” Tord says, offering Tom a small kiss on the nose. Tom wants to spit at him, hit him, bite him again.

Not more than he wants to live on pain free though. Instead he resolves to lay against the pillows and stare at the now vacant ceiling, reminiscing about older times, so far back their edges have faded to dust.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank 13 years of catholic school for this one.


End file.
